Small as an Elephant - Jennifer Richard Jacobson [18]
The other Jack — Big Jack — laughed. “You’re going to have to do better than that, kid. You’re describing one-quarter of America.”
“Does she have a tattoo?” asked the bartender. “A tiny one, right here?” He pointed to the soft place between his forefinger and his thumb.
Jack nodded. She had a tattoo. A tiny orchid. The bartender had seen his mother! He remembered her! “When was she here?” he asked breathlessly.
“Yesterday . . . no, the day before. Saturday morning.”
Two whole days ago! Different emotions rushed to be first in line. Jack took a sip of water, pushing them all back, making them wait.
“Did she stay long?” Jack asked.
“She was talking to someone,” the bartender said. “Guy who works for Hinckley.”
“Sails yachts,” Big Jack said. “I know who you’re talkin’ about now. She was a live wire. She your mom?”
Jack knew that if he said yes, they’d be more careful about the details they shared. “She’s someone I met,” he said.
“I see,” said Big Jack. “Hey, Gary, give me that pencil over there. And, Laurie”— he grabbed the attention of a pretty waitress as she walked by —“you got a first-aid kit back there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Go get it for me, please,” said Big Jack.
He must spend a lot of time here, thought Jack, moving his finger out from under the ice for a moment.
“Well, she was here through lunch,” said the bartender. “The guy she was talking to was getting ready to go off on a charter.”
“What’s that?” asked Jack.
“He’s going to sail someone’s boat to warmer waters, now that the season’s over here,” said Big Jack.
“Warmer like Boston?” asked Jack.
The two men laughed like that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. “Warmer like the Bahamas,” said the bartender.
Jack stopped breathing, which must have blocked oxygen from going to his head. He felt dizzy, like he might faint.
Just then, the waitress — Laurie, Jack thought, trying not to think about anything else other than her name — put a little plastic box on the bar.
“Mudo,” said Big Jack.
Jack looked up. “Mudo?”
“Means ‘thank you’ in Ewe,” said Big Jack, “which is what they speak in parts of Ghana, in Africa.”
“Have you been there?” asked Jack. He’d heard of Ghana. They had lots of African-elephant conservation programs there. It seemed like a lucky sign.
“A long time ago,” Big Jack said as he opened the first-aid kit and pulled out some gauze and a roll of tape. He measured the pencil against Jack’s pinky and broke the pencil in two. Then he carefully wrapped Jack’s pinky with gauze and tape, using the pencil as a splint. It didn’t hurt a bit. Or if it had, Jack hadn’t noticed.
“Don’t worry,” said Big Jack. “This is sort of my job.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. I help kids that need help. So, where’d you meet this woman?” asked Big Jack.
“Seawall Campground,” said Jack. Lying was getting easier and easier. “She thought she might meet me here. She has something for me.”
“Yeah?” said Big Jack. His eyes told Jack he didn’t believe him.
“Well, I think you’re out of luck,” said the bartender. “I’d say she’s on her way to tropical beaches.”
Jack put his glass to his lips and attempted to finish his water, but his throat was blocked. His mother, on a boat. Bahamas. He slid off the stool.
“How about a cheeseburger?” asked Big Jack. “On me?”
Jack knew he should take this man up on the offer, knew he should get something to eat and maybe figure out a way to explain his predicament, but he couldn’t. He was about to lose it. All it would take was one more question, one more kind look, and Jack would spill everything. He couldn’t risk it. He had to think. He had to get air.
“I can’t. I’ve got to get going. Thanks anyway,” said Jack. He couldn’t even look up at Big Jack. “And thanks for fixing my finger!” he called as he turned and ran out of the restaurant, back into the glaring sunlight.
The street was overflowing with couples and families enjoying their last day here on the island. Only none of them